(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "[untitled] The American Art Journal (1866-1867), (1866-06-28), pages 152-155"

STOP 



Early Journal Content on JSTOR, Free to Anyone in the World 

This article is one of nearly 500,000 scholarly works digitized and made freely available to everyone in 
the world byJSTOR. 

Known as the Early Journal Content, this set of works include research articles, news, letters, and other 
writings published in more than 200 of the oldest leading academic journals. The works date from the 
mid-seventeenth to the early twentieth centuries. 

We encourage people to read and share the Early Journal Content openly and to tell others that this 
resource exists. People may post this content online or redistribute in any way for non-commercial 
purposes. 

Read more about Early Journal Content at http://about.istor.org/participate-istor/individuals/early- 
journal-content . 



JSTOR is a digital library of academic journals, books, and primary source objects. JSTOR helps people 
discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content through a powerful research and teaching 
platform, and preserves this content for future generations. JSTOR is part of ITHAKA, a not-for-profit 
organization that also includes Ithaka S+R and Portico. For more information about JSTOR, please 
contact support@jstor.org. 



153 



AMERICAN ART JOURNAt. 



NiBLo's Garden, 
New York, June 1th, 1866. 
t>t L. Downing, Esq., 

President Musical Mutual Protective Union : 

Dear Sib: — ^I Lave received yoar favor of May 
21st. 

There can be no possible mlsconBtrnction of 
llie Artiqlo to wliicli tlio Managers' Association 
objecla, liowevor exalted may bave been the mo- 
tives of your Society in Iraming it. It distinctly 
compels every musiciaii of your Union not to 
jjerform under any leader or witli any artist who 
does not derive a privilege of employment from 
you, and would have the etlect at tliis moment 
of obli.i'ing any manager, who engaged the ser- 
vices or any of your body, to part with iiis pres- 
ent leader and orchestra, an alternative which 
the Managers' Association respectfully declines. 

It also respectfully declines lo arbitrarily dic- 
tate the maxin/im or minlnmm amount which 
any artist is to rpcoive for his services. 

For the rest, witliout venturing to question the 
correctness of the very unUattering estimate 
which you, with such unequaled opportunities of 
judging, have expressed of the character of many 
members of the Musical Union of winch you are 
the President, and ot the motives which influence 
them in the practice of their art — which, I may 
observe, more than justifies the unfavorable view 
which the public have, taken of many of the re- 
cent proceedings of your Association — the Man- 
agers' Association cannot but feel, that had the 
fact occurred to your recollection that the lead- 
ing members of your body, by forsaking, when 
employed in the orchestra, often for many nights 
in the week the duties they had undertaken to 
discharge, and committing them to substitutes 
trom tl)e very class now so severely reprobated, 
encouraged and sanctioned for their own advan- 
tage all those evils to which you attribute the de- 
terioration of your profession, you would have 
spoken of brother artists wiiJi somewhat more 
forbearance and moderation. 

In closing our correspondence, which, as a 
matter of justice to both pariies, the Managers' 
Associotion deems it but proper to publish, per- 
mit uie to renew on my pait, and that of the As- 
sociation of which I am President, the expression 
of good teeling, with which 
1 remain. 

Yours, very truly, 

W. Wheatlet, 
Fres't. Manageri^ Association. 



A DESCENDANT OF .T. SEBASTIAN BACH. 
A WRITING MEDIUM, 



pProm The Stage.) 
Toi0ottrs predrix does not suit our lively ftiends 
of the gay and fascinating capital of France. 
They prefer ioujours canard. The latest speci- 
men of this Parisian delicacy has just found its 
way hero, and it may not be wrong to serve It up 
to our readers. It is a musical canai-d, and rather 
" high," dating back at least two hundred years, 
and being of tlie period of the great J. S. Bach. 
We are almost provoked to call it a Musical-Bach 
duck, but any trifling with our canvas back friend 
would be protanation. Well, ihere is livin"- in 
Paris a descendant ot ths great Sebnstian, the 
author of the " well tempered clavichord. " He is 
elderly and respectable. For many years lie has 
been a teacher of music, devoting such spare 
time as that arduous profession permitted to anti- 
quarian pursuits. Amongst the curiosities which 
ho has accumulated is a strange old spinet, made 
out of oak, ornamented with much fine carving, 
tastefully gilded arabesques, intermingled with 
turquoises and gilded jf?e!(?-s de lys. 'Ihis instru- 
ment was picked up at a curiosity shop, the pro- 
prietor of which said that it had just come from 
Italy. To a ^enUemaa like Mr. Bach, who was 
both a musician and an antiquarian, it was ot 
course singularly interesting. He examined it 
very closely, and at length discovered the inscrip- 
tion, Bovia 1504— showuig where and when it 
was made, lie furthei- amused himself by playing 



upon it during the evening. At the usual hour 
lie retired to rest, highly sartsfled with his prize. 
Strange to say he had a dream. An elegantly 
dressed foreigner, of the period of the 16th cen- 
tury, appeared to him, and said that the Spinet 
now in M. Bach's possession was formerly his 
owa, having been presented to him, (the gentle- 
man of the land of dreams*, by his royal master 
and patron, Henri HI. He stated also, that in 
order to soothe the melancholy of this monarch, 
whose course of love did not run smooth, he had 
written a Saraband, with which to beguilp bis 
Majesty's hours of despondency. The King, too, 
was given to composition, and had written a song 
on the subject of his blighted hopes. The stran- 
ger thereupon,, with alarming alacrity, sat down 
to M. Bach's spinet, f^pd sang and played tioth 
pieces. It is not astonishing that M. Bach was 
awakened by the performance, but it is amazing 
tliat on opening his eyes the first thing that 
struck his gaze was the manuscript of these two 
very airs, written on the blank half of a sheet Qf 
music paper On which he had been engaged the 
day before in writing down one of his own compo- 
sitions. The courtly apparition had disappeared. 
More amazing still was the fact that the notes ot 
the manuscript were written like those now in 
use, but the cleft were diUerent. The words, it 
is stated, are in the style of Henri lU. As a 
matter of course, M. Bach was greatly excited, 
and proceeded at once to make inquiries as to 
the authenticity of the visitant's statements. In 
the course of time he discovered that the stranger 
was no other than the defunct and forgotten 
Baltazarini, a favorite court rausicisn of Henri 111. 
The identity being established, nothing remained 
to be accounted for but the mj'Stenous score. M. 
Bach was sorely perplexed, for he had not heard 
of spiritualism, and yet could not rationally 
account tor the document. He mentioned the 
matter to Iriends who were better posted, and 
about a month afterwards discovered that he was 
a writing medium. One day, alter a violent 
headache and a nervous trembling of the hand, 
he was seized with the thought that Baltazarini 
might, desu-e to cominunicate with him. He took 
a pencil, and held it on a sheet of paper. Imme- 
diately he became insensible, and his hand wrote 
a verse of lour lines, saying that the King had 
given the spinet to Baltazarini. The " copy" is 
somewhat obscure— as spirit writing usually is, 
and M. Bach appealed to Baltazarini for further 
particulars. Upon which the latter wrote: 
" Henri, my tnaster, who gave me the spinet you 
possess, had written a quatrain on a piece ol 
parchment, which he had nailed inside the case 
and sent to me. Some years afterwards, having 
to take a journey, and fearing— as I took the 
spinet with me to play on— that the parchment 
might be torn off and lost, I took, and, that I 
might not lose it, I put it into a little hiding place 
to the left of the keyboard, where it is still. " M. 
Bach now speaks tor himself: • 

"As at that time my spinet had been lent to 
the Retrospective Museum in the Palnce of Indus- 
try, I could not ascertain whether this was true 
or not. But as soon as the spinet was brought 
back to me, my son and I seai-ched caretiilly tor 
this parchment, but could see nothing of it. At 
last, having taken it almost to pieces, wo found 
a niche under the hammers so small that we 
couhl not get at it without taking out several 
of them ; and there, hidden under the dust and 
cobwebs of three hundred years, we found a piece 
of parchment, blackened by time, .thirty centi- 
metres long, seven and a half wide, on which, 
when we had cleaned it, we found the verse 
alluded to, and runmng thus: 

" 'Moy le Roy Henry trois ootroya oette cspuiette, 
A Baltaraziui, men gay musicien, 
Mais sis dit mal sone, on bleu [ma] moult. 

simplette, 
Lors,- pour mon souvenir dans I'estuy garde 
bien.' " 

All this would be very singular if it had not 
occurred a thousand times before, and vei-y ludi- 
crous if M. Bach were not a gentlemen of nearly 
scventyyears, whohasbornethebestotcharacters, 



and Tvhose wcf], even now, is respected. As tfe 
is, we are amused to see our Parisian friends;, 
who ridiculed us severely for our "manifesta- 
tions," lending themselves so i-eadily to a most 
transparent " sell." They may rest assured thafc- 
the nest tlimg to be sold is the spinet. 

— -^ > I * I < 

Among the other. innrvcllonB things tliey promise., 
for the Paris Exhibition, is a photographic nin-" 
chine that talces likenesses in all culurs but green,' 
a color which still remains obstinate to the in^ 
main.s obslinate'to the invcntar's rogchrches. Tlio 
Hasha of Egypt' has appropriated .€40,000 for th« 
mere fitting up of his portion of the building. 
Turkey >Yill sen"! on the minaret of her niosquCj a 
mausolojitm, apd a model of a Turkish house, with 
its diyiins, biitji.j/jtc., he. Persia will construct, 
on the Cimnip de Mars, kiosques, silk-worm nurse-- 
rie.<«, opium niaiiufactorics, &c., a pavilioA, with a 
model pi the Shah's throne, and copies of pictures, 
rich carpets, furniture, &o., which adorn the im-- 
pcrial residence, andtlie fountains that 0urrouud it. 

NEW BOOKS. 



Mbmoibs of a GooD-POB-NoTHiN'o,-^From thet 

(Jennan of Joseph Von Eichendoi-fl', by CHARLEa 

Godfrey Leland. With Vignettes by B. B. 

Bensell. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 

The story of a Good-for-Nothing seems to par- 

lake of more of the spirittial dolce farniente than 

is common to that class of German romance, 

which fact may rest rather with the ^Irit of tho 

translation than the real sentiment of the book ifr^ 

self. Still, there is sufficient of materialism in its 

tone to claim fbr it the title ot a fiiithfiil transla^ 

tion. . 

The herd of the book is an idle, good-tempered, 
dreamy, and romantic fellow, lovtag,, instinctively, 
music and poetry J free from actual vice, faithful 
In his nature, careless of the future, a very waif of 
humanity, and like a waif,- floating into strange 
places. ' He is the most involuntary hero of ro- 
mances, and the actor in strange courts, all of 
which fell in his way, because he was loitering 
along any road which presented itself, and wait- 
ing for anything that might happen. The one 
desire of his heart is to reach Italy, where food is 
to be had for the gathering, and the pleasantest 
lodging is the open air. Nothing to pay, and no 
work to do, seem to have been the goal of the 
Good-fbr-Nothirig's ambition. All the chances 
and the changes of his life were wrought by tho 
mighty talisman of love— a love which was called 
to life by romance, nurtured in a mistake anil 
ends in a surprise and happiness. The incidents 
are those of a romance, and the characters such 
as should people it, vague and indeflnlte, but 
parts of the poetic woof of which it is composed. 
It is certainly a sunny book, glittering aiid in- 
teresting, and addresses itself to that Bohemian 
principle iii every poetic nature, which developes 
itself in the yearning to be free Irom the restraints 
and forms of civilization, and the social tyranny 
which springs up in all large communities- a 
feeling which is undefined and rai'ely realized, but 
which all ofushaVe felt at some early period of 
our existence.' The philosophy of the Good-tbr- 
nothing may be gathered fl-om the following lines, 
which seem to spring to the lips as a perpetual -' 
consolation, whenever chance throws him upon 
the world, aimless, though not hopeless: 
" God, when on man great love bestowing, 
Over the wide world bids him rove, 
Unto him all his marvels showing 
In stream and field and hilland grove. 
" The lazy who at honie are lying 

Are cheered not by morn's early red. 
Know naught save nursing-children crying, 
■ And cure and fear and thoughts of bread. 



AMMICAN ART JOURNAL. 



153 



" The streamlets from the hills are springing, 
The lark pipes high his merry note ; 
Why should not I with them go singmg 
From healthy breast and hearty throat,? 

■" Let God rlUe all things, With the weather, 
The brook and lark and field and tree ; 
The heaVen and eai'th he'll keep togdthot. 
And turn my luck to the best for me ! 

We quote a , Chapter trom this pleasant book, 
Which will not only portray a character of, the 
hero, but will show the agreeable style of the 
work: ' ; 

Close by the Caatle-^den, d^id 'bnlyS^parated 
ft'oiu it by a high wall, ran the g^eat turnpike. 
Just there a very neat little toll-house with a retl- 
tiled roof had been built, behind which lay a little 
ilower-ganlen with d tiue hedge, which opened, 
however, through a breach iu tne castle-wall, into 
the shadiest and tnost retired portion of ita 
grounds. 

One day there was a death— that of the toll- 
man, who had lived for a long time in this plea- 
sant public tei-mitage— and early the next morn- 
ing I was wakened ttom my sleep by the secre- 
tary of the castle, and summonecl by him to 
appear without delay before the squire, lie was 
a ilroll dog, this same secretary— one of the kind 
who thiiik that a good fright is an excellent joke; 
and he accordingly enjoyed very much my alarm 
at being called m such a manner; In fact, he 
was in such an ecstacy of joy at my grave face 
tbat I, too, soon forgot my fright, and followed 
him atftall speed, he meanwhile snatching at a 
flower or fencing at the wind with his slender 
cane. As I entered the offlce, in the early dawn, 
there sat the squire behind an enormous inkstand 
and piles of papers and books, looking trom his 
mighty wig like an owl from its nest. And the 
instant I entered he hooted aloud at me, in a very 
owly tone indeed, "Whoo— whoo — whoo — are 
jou? WhoO— whoo— at's yom- name. Whoo— 
whoo— at's your^get- Whoo— did yoo— ou come 
from I Can yoo— 6u write and lead and cipher?" 
flapping his elbow sometimes, when the vilioo had 
been uncommonly well done, and shrugging up 
his shoulders until he seemed going more and 
more into owldom, without the faintest hope of 
return. 

As I readily proved that I was well accom- 
plished in the lore of which he booted, he chuckled 
as if well pleased— or, as.it struck me, as if I had 
given him a fat mouse— and proceeded to inform 
ine, in the tone peculiar to benevolent owls, that 
the gracious gentry of the castle had; in consid- 
eration of my excellent conduct and many merits, 
determined to. bestow on me the situation of toll- 
taker, just become vacant-. 

Iieviewed in haste my accomplishments and 
education as ho spoke, and could not really deny 
that the squire was in the right And so, before 
" 1 knew it-, I had an office undor government and 
had become a receiver of taxes. 
. I at once entered my new dwelling, and was 
sooa comfortably established in it. To my great joy, 
I found a number of useful and ornamental articles 
which the late toll-man had left lo his successor: 
among the rest, a splendid scarlet dressing-robe, 
wit I large yellow rings and spots, green slippers, 
a pvetty smoking-cap, and sundry pipeg^yitU long 
stems. AU these tine things I had coveted ior 
many a day, even before I left home, when I saw 
our village pastor sitting in state with similar 
equipments. 

It was an easy life, this of taking toll, and I 
enjoyed it. Nothing to do but sit all day on a 
bench betbre my house, arrayed in dressing-robe 
and cap, and smoke my predecessor's pipe, blow- 
ing blue clouds, and seeing how the people rode 
or walked past to and fro. From the very depths 
of my soul did I, however, wish that just a few 
people from our village— some of the ro seals who 
prophesied that I would never in all my life come 
to anything — would travel by my little establish- 
ment and see me in thiseait of thing— particular 



reference being made at the end of my wish tothe 
ted dressing-gown; tot it there was any one article 
01 taith to which I adheted with all my heart and 
soul, It was to the belief that the garment in ques- 
tion was the very perfection of all elegance and 
style. So 1 sat there, and thought of many 
things— how hai-d it is to get a start in the world, 
and how much better the more aristocratic style 
of lite, with its easy work, was than any other— 
and linally determined that I would cease travel- 
ing, and save up my money like other folks, so as 
to become something great at last. But, with all 
this, morning and evening I thought continually 
on the beautiful lady. 

I pulled up and threw away the potatoes which 
I found growing in my little garden, planting in 
theit' place the choicest ffowers, at which the 
stately castle-porter with the princely nose (who 
since 1 was toll-taker had become my most inti- 
mate friend and daily visitor) shook his head and 
intimated that my sudden good fortune had 
turned my brain. But I never let that disturb me ; 
for just then among the voices iu the park I 
thought I heard that of the fair lady. After this, 
I maae every day as choice a bouquet as I could, 
and, when it was dark, laid it on a stone table, 
where she was wont to go, in a retired thicket; 
and every evening, when I brought fresh Uowei's, 
those of yesterday were gone I 

One evening the people of the castle had ridden 
away, hunting. The sun was setting, coveting 
all tiie land with gleaming, quivering light; the 
Danube wound like a serpent of pure gold, and 
fire, far, far away, and from' every hill into the 
deep distance rang the songs and shouts of the 
vine-dressei-s. I sat with the pottet on the bench 
betore my house, and reveled in the mild ait as 
the merry daylight slowly grew dim and the echoes 
died away. Then all at once the horns of the re- 
turning huntsmen were heard, as they answered 
one another trom hill to hill. I ifelt pleased to my 
very heart, and cried out in a rapture, "Ah, 
that's the business for me, that noble hunting 1 " 
But the porter calmly knocked oat the ashes from 
his pipe, andiSaid, " That's what yow think, is it? 
Well, I've been through all that work, and poor 
wotk it is. One doesn't earn the value of the 
soles which he wears out; and as for the colds 

and coughs one gets from wet feet " 

I do not know how it was, but this answer cast 
me into such a rage that I fairly trembled. All at 
once the whole fellow, with his bore of a doak, 
and everlasting feet, and snufl' and'turkey-cock 
nose, appeared intolerable. I caught him, as if 
beside myself, by the breast, and said, "Now, 
porter, pack away with you; go home, or -I'll 
thrash you like the deuce 1 " 

Hearing this, the porter suddenly recurred to 
his old idea that I was literally insane. He 
looked at me seriously, but with secret fear, and, 
without speaking a word, went away with long 
strides to the castle, ever and anon turning and 
shaking his head significantly, until he reached 
home, where he reported that I had really gone 
mad. I, however, only bm-st out laughing, and 
was glad to have got rid of this heavy sage— the 
more so as it was just the hour when 1 was ac- 
customed to make my bouquet, and lay it in the 
tjvcket. So I sprang quickly over the wall, and 
was flying toward the stone table, when 1 sud- 
denly heard the ti-ead of a horse near by. There 
was no escape for me, as I saw my fair lady in a 
green hunting-dress, with nodding feathers iu her 
hat, riding slowly, and apparently in a deep reve- 
rie, up the avenue. I could not stir; and it 
seemed to me as though I saw oefore me that 
most beautiful of women, the fair Magelona, of 
whom I had read in.old books at home, as she had 
even so appeai-ed under high trees, amid the rin^ 
of hunting-horns ever sounding nearer and 
nearer, and in the changing lights of early eve. 
She, however, was almost alarmed as she be- 
held me, and unconsciously checked her horse; 
while I was like one intoxicated with doubt, 
heart-beating, and wild joy. But as I observed 
that she bore on her bosom theijouquet of yester- 
day, I could no longer restrain myselt; and said, 
very confusedly, "Beautiful lady— your ladyship 



— please to take these ilowers too from me, and 
all in my garden, and all that I have 1 Oh, if I 
could only go through tire and water tbt you 1 " 

She looked at me, as I first spoke, steadily, al-" " 
most augrily, so that her eyes thrilled me to the 
very heart; but, as I went ou, her glance sunk to 
the ground. Suddenly the sound of huutsiiien 
approaching us was heard, and, catching the 
Uowers from my hand, she disappeared, without 
speaking a word, through the farther end of the 
avenuei 

After that evening) I louud nO loUgcr rest oi? 
repose. Feeling of uneasiness oppiessed me, yet 
mingled with indefinable pleasant hopes, as if 
spring were coming, so that I could not tell whe- 
ther some great good fortune was fluttering to-* 
wards me, or what extraordinary event -it was 
which hung over me. At this time my vexatious 
ciphering and toll-house accounts bothered mS 
sadly; so that when the sunshine through the 
chestnut-leaves fell green-golden through the 
window on my book, while adding up my columns 
from top to bottom and back again, strange 
thoughts passed through my mind, and I oilen 
became so confused that I actually could not 
count three. For the figure 8 always seemed to 
me to be my plump, black-eyed, and tightly-cor- 
seted little dame; and the evil 7 was like a guide- 
post etemafiy pointing backwm-ds — or the gallowsj 
The 9, however, madeltself merriest at my expense, 
often standing, ere I was aware, like a 6 on its 
head; while 2 looked on like a note of interroga- 
tion, asking, " What will become of me at last, 
my poor cipher? Without Aer, that slender One 
and all, you would be torever nothing I " 

Even sitting out before the door ceased to be a 
comfort to me. To be more at my ease, i placed 
a footstool there, and, after mending a large unv 
btella which the late toll-nlan had left, opened it 
like a Chinese tent to protect me trom the sunj 
But it was a'l in vain. I bored myself until I 
thought my legs were growing longer for want of 
something else to do, and that my nose was push- 
ing out lor very weariness, as I gazed on it for 
hours. ■ ' And when, many a tmie before the break 
of day, an extra-post-catriage came driving by, 
and I went out half asleep into the cool ait, and 
perhaps some pretty little face peeped out, ot 
which the sparkling eyes only were visible in the 
dim light, looking eai-nestly at me and bidding 
me good morning— when the cocks crew gayiy 
from afar over the sotUy-waving corn-fields, and 
between the red stripes of morning in the east 
there swept a lark too early aroused Itom his nest, 
and the postilion, as he drove away, blew and 
blew on his horn— why, then I stood at my wiii' 
dow, gazing after the wagon, and it seemed to 
me that I too must go attcr it, forth into the 
wide, wide world 1 

I still continued to leave my boquets every eve- 
ning on the stone table. But— there was the 
sorrow I-^no living soul troubled itsell about the 
matter after that evening; and when I in the 
morning looked at my little ofl'ering, there lay 
the Uowers, gazing at mo with their hanging, fad- 
ing eyes covered with dew, as though they wept 
for grief. This troubled me, and I made no mote 
boquets. Weeds might grow m my gai-den now 
if they would, and the flowera bloomed sadly and 
alone till the wind scattered their leaves. All 
was quite as weedy and seedy in my heart. 

While I had been gardener's boy, none of the 
castle-tolk had ever talked to me; and after I be- 
came toll-man I spoke as little with them— always 
excepting my lute reserved Iriend the stately por- 
ter, who said nothing at all; so that I knew very 
little of my lords and ladies. A servant either 
knows everything or nothiug. In this critical 
time of ignorance, weed?, and griet; it happened 
one evening, as I lay in the great window of my 
little home, looking wearily up at the slcy, that 
the waiting-maid of the castle came trlppin"' 
along. She came up as she saw me, and stood 
by the window. "My lord returned yesterday 
from his journey," said she, in a hutry. "In- 
deed 1 " I replica, quite unconscious, in the depth 
of my ignorance, that he had been gone for wocivs; 
"then out young luly his daughtet must be very 



154 



AMEUICAN AlJT JOURNAL 



glad." The girl looked at me wUh a sly glance, 
80 that I wondered what I had said particularly 
stupid. ' ' Pshaw I why, the child actually knows 
nothing at all I " she cried, with a shrug of her 
little shouldera. "W<sll," she continued, "tl'.ls 
evening there Is to be a ball at the castle in honor 
of mv ford's teturt, alid a masquerade. My lady 
will "be masked, too, as a gardener-girl; do you 
mind that innocence?— I Say, as a gardener's 
girl! Now, my lady happens to have noticed 
that you have very line llowers in your garden 
("That is more than I have noticed myself, lately," 
thought I, " considering the state of the weeds, ") 
and ttS my lady wants flowers iresh IVom thbe 
bed— mind that, too, innocence 1— why, you are 
to bring her some, and this eveniag at that, afler 
dark, and you're to wait in the castle-garden un- 
der the great pear-tree, and she will come and 
get them." 

I was bewildered with joy at this news, and, in 
my delight, made but one jump from the window 
at the pretty waiting-maid. 

"Oh, what a nasty old night-gown 1 " she 
Cried, as 1 appeared at flill length in ftill blaze of 
^ Scarlet with yellow rings. That hit hard; and, to 
show her that I was not altogether slow in mat- 
tere of gallantry, I chased her right and left to 
get a kiss. But, as the deuce would hove It, the 
aregsing-robe which was much too long for me, 
caught under my feet, and I fell on the ground. 
As I picked myself up, hke one who has stumbled 
in running a sack-race, I saw the pretty waiting- 
maid vanishing among the trees, and heard her 
laughing merrily at my mishap, as if she herself 
could hardly keep her feet 

And now I had something to think of, and to 
gladden my heart. She did remember me and 
my llowers, after all I I ron into my g^irden, and, 
tearing up the weeds in hasce, threw them high in 
the air and fiir awoy, as though I were rooting up 
and destroying a sorrow with every one. The 
roses again grew ruddy like her mouth, the 
heayenly-blue convolvulus was like her eyes, and 
the show-white lily, with its musing, melancholy, 
drooping head, was all like lier; and I placed the 
whole si'slerhood caretliUy in a basket. It was a 
lovely, silent evening, witliout a cloud. Here 
and there a star began to gleam in the sky; over 
the moadowSi borne on the fragrant breeze, came 
the rush of the Danube; and all around the wild 
birds sang merrily. Ah I I was so happy 1 

AS night came on, 1 took my basket on my arm 
and went towards the great garden. The flowers 
lay so beautifully in their little nest, and seemed 
so patient and gentle in their red, blue, and white 
freshness and fragrance, that my heart expanded 
with them as I peeped in. 

Full of glad thoughts, 1 went on in the moon- 
light, passed the dainty thickets and summer- 
houses, and over the silent, neatly-sanded walks, 
and trim little white bridges, under which, sleep- 
ing as they floated in the grotesque shadows, sat 
the stately swans. The great pear-tree I found 
readily enough ; for it was the same under which, 
when gardener's boy, I had dreamed away so 
many sultry afternoons. 

Now it was so dark and lonely 1 Only a high 
aspen trembled incessantly, uiid whispered with 
its silver leaves. Sometimes the swell ot music 
rose tVom the castle; and now and then in the 
garden voices were hoard which came jiear me, 
und.then, step by step, died away, till all was again 
silent. 

How my heart beat I licit as tremulous; and 
guilty as though I were there to steal. Long I 
stood leaning on the tree, lurking and listening 
on every side; but still no one came, and I could 
bear the suspense no more. I must do some- 
thing; so I hung my basket quickly on my ai^, 
and climbed the pear-tree, to breathe, higher up, 
Iresher an*. 

For the lirst time the music now sounded dis- 
tinctly, as it swept over the tops .of the ti-ees. I 
could see all the garden, and look directly into 
the brilliantly-lighted castle-hall. There the 
chandeliers tm-iied in the breeze, like wi'caths of 
stars; innumerable gentlemen and ladies crowded 
•and whu-lcd in the dance, and mingled gayly. 



ever disappearing amid each other, -while many 
came to the windows and looked out on the night. 
Before the house were the green banks, the llow- 
ering shrubs, and the trees— all gilded by the 
many lights; while the flowers and birds seemed 
to stare as it awakened from thew sleep. And 
farther on, around and behind all, lay the garden, 
buried in deepest, darkest shade. 

" There she dances," thought 1, alone up in the 
tree, "arid has doubtless long since forgot you 
and your flowers. All is so merry, and no living 
soul troubles himself about you. Every one has 
his little corner of the earth to himself— his warm 
stove, his cup of cofl'ee, his wife, and his glass of 
wine in the evening— and is well contented with 
it all. Even the porter, there, is satisfied in his 
long dress; But nothing goes right with you. 
It's just as if you came a little too late overy- 
where, and as if the whole workl took no account 
of you." " * ^ 

While I philosophized thus, I heard all at once 
something rustling below me in the grass. Two 
sweet voices conversing closely, and in subdued 
tones, together. Soon the twigs in the shrubbery 
parted, and from between them came forth the wee 
little face of the waiting-maid, looking to every side 
among the leaves, while the moonlight shone di- 
rectly on her shrewd eyes as she peeped around. 
An instant after, and the gardener-girl- just as 
the waiting-maid had described her— stepped out \. 
from among the trees. My heart beat as il it 
would break. She, however, wore a mask, and 
seemed to look around as if bewildered. Some- 
how it struck me that she did not seem so slender 
and graceful as usual. At last she came close to 
the tree, and removed her mask— Why, it was the 
elder of tho two ladies, the plump, black-eyed 
one I 

How glad I was, as I recovered from my first 
surprise, that I was up there in safety 1 "How, 
in all the world," thought I, "does she come 
here? 'Faith, if the dear, beaulitUl young count- 
ess were to step in jUst this minute for her flow- 
ers, there would be a nice story I " But I felt, on 
the whole, as if I could weep with vexation at the 
whole afl'air. 

Meanwliile, the masked gardener-girl below 
began to speak: " It is so sufibcating and warm 
there in the hall 1 I must cool myself a little in 
the delicious open air." Therewith she fanned 
herself" with her mask, and blew away the air. I 
could see by the bright moonlight that her plump 
neck seemed to fairly swell as she crimsoned with 
vexation. The chambermaid sought, meanwhile, 
under every hedge and bush, as though bunting 
for pins. 

" I wanted fresh flowers so much for my char- 
acter," continued the "gardener-girl." " Where 
on earth can he be hiding? .(Here the waiting- 
maid giggled.) 

"Did you say anything, Kosette?" exclaimed 
the mask, rather sharply. 

" I say," was the reply, with a very devoted 
air, "what I always ?Mve said— that the whole 
toll-man from head to foot was, is, and always 
will bo a lout. Pshaw ! he's lying asleep now 
somewh'ere under a bush 1 " 

I felt a tlirilling, prickling sensation, as of a 
million tmy spurs, .goading me down to rescue 
my reputation from this horrible charge, when all 
at once a thundering sound ol drums, orchestral 
music, and shouts rose from tlie castle, and the 
lady exclaimed, with vexation, " There 1 they, are 
abovt to cheer my lorcl. Come, or we shall be 
missed I " Saying this, she clapped on her mask 
and ran angrily towards the castle. 

The trees seemed to point their long and 
branching fingers after her as if with jeera, the 
boughs of shrubbery were lifted in the breeze like 
sneering noses above her head, while the moon- 
light played quickly ai'ound her full waist as if 
glidfaig over the key-board of a piano; and so 
she made her exit, as I have often seen it done by 
pi-ima donnas on the stage, amid a tinalroar of 
trumpets and drums. 

Bud I, up in my tree there, could not determine 

exactly what had happened to me, and so kept 

1 tuy glance fixed immovably upon the eastle;'ibr 



a row of tall flambqaux upon the broad steps 
before It cast a strange gleam over the glittering 
windows and tar into the garden. Tliey were 
lighted just as the servants of the h'ouseliold 
came to play a serenade to their lord. Among 
them, stately and gloriously arrayed, as prime 
minister, stood the porter at a music-desk, 
blowing away with vigor and industry on a 
bassoon. 

As I sat myself more comtbrtably to listen to 
the beautlM serenade, I saw the folding-gates lu 
the balcony thrown open, and between them ap». 
peared a tall and stately gentleman, in unitbrm 
and with many glittering orders, Suppoi-ting orl 
one arm — the beautiful ybung lady, all in white, 
like a lily in the. night, or the moun sweeping 
over a cloudless sky, 

I could not turn my eyes from the spot, ami 
garden, tbrest, and field seemed tovanish as sho 
stood there, tall and slender and beautiful, among 
the gleaming torches, at one time speaking con- 
fidingly to the officer, and at aiiother nodding 
amiably to the musicians. The people down 
below were wild with joy, and I too, at last, 
yielding to the excitement, cried "JHMn-aA/", 
with tliem, and with all my might. 

But after they had disappeared, and one torch 
after another was extinguished before" the castle,' 
and the music-desks were cleared away, little by 
little the garden became dark as before, and the 
rustling of the trees in the nightrwind was again 
a constant solitary round,— <Ae» all seemed plain 
tome, and it fell at once like Ice on my heart) 
that it was the aunt alone who sent for my Bow- 
eis, that the beautiful young lady was betrothed 
or married to the handsome nobleman, and that 
I myself was a fooll 

It all plunged me into an abyss of dark revery. 
I rolled myself like a hedgehog against the sharp 
points ot my own thoughts, while the music of 
the dance sounded fitfully and at longer intervals 
from the castle, and clouds swept one by one 
over the dark gardens. And so I sat, like an owl, 
amid the ruins of my happiness, all through tho 
lonelynight. ,, • ,,; 

The cool morning air at last woke me teoiw 
my dreams. How astonished I was as I looked 
aronnd! Music and dancing had long since 
ceased: while in the castle and all about it, on 
the broad turf, and among the stone steps and 
pillars, all was so silent, cool, and calm ; — only 
the fountain before the gate prattled merrily as it 
ran oh. Here and there, on the twigs near me, 
the birds were waking, shaking their plumes and 
looking with wonder at their new treelellow, 
while gayly-sweeping morning sun-r.ays fell across 
the garden upon my breast. 

Then I sat straight up in my tree, and looked 
tbr the first time over the country,' to where a 
sail here and there, fai-, far on tho Danube, shono 
white between the vineyards, or where the aS 
yet empty highways tlirew themselves out like 
bridges in the shinmg land, along over hill and 
dale. - 

I know not how it was, but all at once my 
old longiii" to wander suddenly seized on itie,—- 
all the old sadness and joy and strange hope. 
And at once with it there fell into my soul the 
thought that the fair lady lay slumbering m th^ 
castle, among flowera and under silken canopies, 
and that an angel sat by her in the early morning 
stillness. "Nol no!" 1 cried, "I must away 
hence, and: ever away, as tar as the heaveii is 
blue I" 

With that, strange, wild boy that I was, I 
threw my basket high in the air; and it was 
right pleasant to see now the flowers rained down 
between the branches and lay in many colors on 
the turfi, Then I quickly descended, and ran to 
my house, where I long lingered, gazing on tlie 
places where I had seen herj" or where I had lain 
in the shade and mused over what I had seen. 

Every thing in my house was unchanged trom 
the day before. My garden was plundered and 
waste, while in the room the great account-book 
lay wide open, and-on the wall my long-forgotten 
fiddle hung covered with dust. A sunbeam from 
the opposite window fell gleaming on the strings, 



B '^*x!t75s7??iw5^'^«r^^ 



AMERICAN ART JOURNA!!. 



155 



and seemed to awake a pl>?rl^^><:h reechoed 
In my heart. "Yes," I cried, "come here, my 
trusty friend I Om- kingdom is not ot this 
world!" . „ 1, 

So I took down the fiddle from the wall, 
let account-book, dressing-robe, slippers, pipes, 
and umbrel a lie, and wandered, poor as I had 
come, from my house, for away upon the sunny 
roads. 

I often looked behind me, with strangely- 
minsled feelings of sorrow, changing with Joy 
as of a bkd flying U-om his cage. And, havin| 
gone a good distance, I took out my fiddle ^nd 
sang in the open air: — ; 

" Let God rale all things, with the, weather,. 
The brook and lark and field and tree ; 
The lieaveus and earth he'll keep together, 
Aud turn my luck to the best for me !" 

The castle, the garden, and the distant towers 
of Vienna had disappeared behind me in the 
purple morning light; "over my head countless 
larks were revelling high in the air; and so, be- 
tween green hills and plessant towns and ham- 
lets, I went onwaW to Italy. 



FOREIGN LITERARY INTELLIQENCB. 



The term " masterly inactivity," ascribed to 
John C. Calhoun, originated witli Sir James 
Mackintosh. "God tempers the wind to the_ 
shorn lamb," which everybody, who did not sup-' 
pose it was in the Bible, credited to Sterne, was 
stolen by him from George Herbert, who trans- 
lated it from the Prencli of Henry Estienne, 
"Dieii mesurele wM dla hrebis tondue." "In 
the midst of life we are in death "has been 
quoted even by divines as a scriptural phrase, 
whereas it is only to be found in the Book of 
Common Prayer. " The cups that cheer but not 
inebriate" was" conveyed by Cowper from 
Bishop Berkley, in his " Siris," WoddswortU'S 
"The child is father of the man," is traced frOm 
him to Milton, and from Milton to Sir Thomas 
Moore. "Like angel's visits, few and far be- 
tween." is the offspring of Hood; it is not 
Thomas Campbell's original thought. Old John 
Norris (1658) originated it, and after him Robert 
Blair, as late as 1746. "There's a gudetime 
coming," is Scott's phrase in " Rob Roy ; " and 
the " almighty dollar " is Washington Irving's 
happy hit. We often hear quoted the line, 
" When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug 
of war," and its origin is miuch discussed. It is 
by the old English poet, Nat Lee, and occurs in 
his play of " The Rival Qneens." The correct 
reading; however, is, " When Greeks joyu'd 
Greeks, tlien was the tug pf^war." 

The great work of electrotyping the Bible in 
Arabic is now going on in New York. It is de- 
signed for circulation among 120,000,000 of peo- 
ple, and is the greatest work of the kind ever 
undertaken. More than thirty years ago it was 
found by Er. Eli Smith and Mr. H. Hall<)ck, then 
in Smyrna, diat no font of type, in whicli Arabic 
books were then i>rinted, suited the extremely 
fastidious taste of Arabs and Turks, whose own 
manuscripts were marvels of beauty and sym- 
metry. Dr. Smith •«ha^ng prpvidentjajly ob- 
tained several of the most perfectly finished pf 
those manuscripts, a quite successful attempt 
was made by Mr. Hallock to prepare type which 
should well compare with the beauty of the 
manuscript. But hot satisfied with what was 
then done, Mr. Hallock, for the past thirty years, 
has been seeking a higlier degree of perfection. 
He has at length, by great mechanical skill and 
unfaltering perseverance, produced fonts of type 
so symmetrical and perfect as completely to sat- 
isfy the tastes of the Arabs and Turks, whose 
language and manuscripts are among the richest, 
most beautiful and widely circulated on the 
globe. 

The latest Roman papers record the death of 



Cardinal Resti, librarian of tlie Vatican. He was 
more than usually liberal in showing the curious 
and invaluable manuscripts of tlie Vatican, and 
permitting them to be collated and transcribed ; 
but so zealous did he watch over these precious 
trusts that no one was mutilated during his 
guardianship. - 

Guizot's 8tli volume of Shakspeare has reached 
its 6th edition.-and Victor Hugo's " Travailleurs 
de la Mer" is having an immense sale all over 
the world. 

The English papers describe the Rev. William 
Selwyn's "Waterloo, a Song of Jubilee," as 
" one of the best poeniaof the day," and say tliat 
-" the ^account of the batjle is so ^graphically 
give% that it would as ar'prose Worhj take a 
stand by Sibourne, Mnflling, and Other writers." 
Such descriptions of battles must always be diffi- 
cult, and only a first class genius, like Homer, 
can give life to lists and movements of regiments 
and battalions. . Hitherto we have had to depend 
on prose descriptions for the minutise of the bat- 
tle of Waterloo, and upon Byfon's verse for the 
■poetry and the glory. 

The French Academy of Sciences have recently 
come in possession of a very valuable work, 
being nothing less than D'Alembert's "Memoiro 
of Lagrange," in eight vobimes, given by him to 
(Jondorcet. It next passed into the hands of 
Blot, who gave it to Bottr, Professor of L'Ecole 
Polyteclmique, who recently dying, sent it to the 
Academy of Sciences. It is the most curious 
and valuable in their collection. 

Byron's "Don Juan," recently translated into 
German by Gildemeister, is said to be a most 
perfect rendering of a great work fromone mod- 
ern language to another, as admirable, in its 
way, as Coleridge's version of Schiller's "Pio- 
colomini." 

The valuable private library of Isaac Taylor, 
the author of the " Natural History of Enthusi- 
asm," has been sold at auction in London. It 
contained the principal works of the Fathers of 
the Church, and a great variety of theological 
and classical works. 

Herr Grosse, a Berlin publisher, has been 
sentenced to a inonth's imprisonment for insult- 
ing the French Emperor, in a novel published 
by him, entitled " Louis Napoleon, or the 
Struggle between Destiny and the Imperial 
Crown. 

Shakspeare is being translated into Hindo- 
stanee and published at Bombay. 

M. Theophde Gautier's daughter, Judith, trans- 
lates from the Chine-se, writes criticisms on art, 
and has lately, married M. CatuUe Mendes, a 
promising young French poet. 

M. Emile Augier is quite happy over the fact 
that five thousand copies of his new comedy, 
"La Contagion," sold on the day of publication. 

Jeff Davis, a few days ago, on being applied 
to by a photographist, declined to allow his pic- 
ture to be taken, because he had changed so 
that his old friends would not know him. On 
the contrary,' the artist, who has known him for 
a long time, said he did not think ho hacl changed 
very greatly in his appearance. His voice was a 
very little weak, but that he did not propose to 
take. 

Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie is now living 
in London. Her sympathies went with the South, 
by the def .-at of which it is said her husband lost 
all his propert.v. Mrs. Kitchie has been spending 
some time in Italy, but came to London with the 
resolute purpose of supporting herself by her pen. 
Her residence is in Kensington, nor. far from 
Thackeray's late home, in a quiet, healthful neigh- 
borhood, full of literary associations. She has 
been a great sufferer physically, but, in spite of 
this, she wonderfully retains her youth and 
beauty. She is very hard to work upon her lite- 
rary projects. 

Young Dumas has written a new book called 
" Clemcnceau's Case, an Accused Man's Memoir" 
A newspaper wished to publish it in fragments, and 
offered an immense sum for the privilege. Dumas 



refused, on the ground that the stOry was not a. 
proper one for family circulation. 

M. de la Chatre has taken the pains to publish 
seven octavo volumes and more are promised, 
under the frightful title, "The History of the 
Popes; Crimes, Murders, Poisonings, Parricides, 
Adulteries, and Incests of the Roman Pontiffs, 
from the time of St. Peter down to our own 
day." 

Mr. W. H. Russell, the celebrated Times corres' 
pondent, is writing a " History of the American 
War." 



• A Summer LnxuRY.— The latest novelty in Lon» 
don is the Zephyrion or Table Punka. The 
"Punka," it will he reuiembcred, wm iutroduced 
into this country by Mr, Stuart, at'Wallnck's old 
theatre. It economizes labor, and very simply and 
very simply and effectually ventilates the Warmest 
place of amusement. The "Zephyrion" consists 
of a small round box on a stand. 'J"o this a fan is 
fixed, and the machinery having been wound up 
with a key, the fan comn'iences its action, waving 
backward and. forward with a slow or rapid move* 
ment, according as it is registered, it can be 
placed upon the table beside the reader, writer, or 
worker, and will undoubtedly be a favorite in 
warm climates. Any fan can be attached. 



SKETCH OP VICTOR MASSE, THE COM- 
POSER. 



The Opera Comique, Which has not been for- 
tunate ot late years, has obtained a decided suc- 
cess with M. Victor- MassA's " Hot' d'Aliza," al. 
though the "book" is so entirely uilsuited with 
the stage, .it was thought for some nights the 
opera would prove still-born. As every one of 
your readers is familiar with M. do Lamartine'a 
work on Which the " book" is founded, it would 
be fatiguing to analyse it. They may find more 
interest in a brief sketch of the composer who, I 
believe, is destined to attain very high rank iu 
his art. Felix Marie Masse was born at Lorient. 
He did not receive the name Victor at baptism, 
but gave it to himself as likely to tell well on 
the play-bills. WheH he was nine years old ho 
was admitted to the School of Choron, one of 
the most celebrated music masters seen io 
France this halfcetftury. Hero ho remained 
until Choran's death, when he entered the Con- 
servatory, joining, Zimmerman's piano class. Ho 
carried off the first prize in it, and his master, see- 
ing the promise he gave of musical talents, court, 
seled Inm to study harmony and counterpoint. • 
He did so, and in the course of a short time be- 
came a pupil of Halovy. In 1845 he wrote tho 
music of the cantata " Le Renegat," and won 
the grand prize, .which secured him a threo 
years' residence at" Rome, at the expense of the 
French Government. Ho secured, I scarcely 
know how — the favor of M. Perrin, tho ;naniv- 
ger of the Opera Comique. As he is a brilliant 
talker, especially abouf his art, he probably se- 
cured the manager's favor by it as well as by his 
master's patronage. At all events upon his re- 
turn from Rome, M. Perrin told him he would 
play any opera comique he might write. He 
wrote " La Chanteuse VoiBo (which has been 
repeatedly played in New Orlertns) and it was 
brought out at the Opera Comique in 1851. Tho 
success was immense; It became instantly pop- 
ular, and the composer's name was on every 
tongue coupled with vaticinations as flattering 
as those of the witches who met Macbeth. Tho 
following year he gave "Galathee," which 
was as popular as his first opera ; and the 
same year (1852) he brought out " Les Noces de 
Jeannette," which was still more successful than 
its predecessors. There seemed to be no hight 
of musical art which the young composer might 
notliope to scale — then came a turn of tide — he ^ 
struggled in vain to command success. 'I'ho 
public turned its back on him, though he gave 
" La Fiancee du Diable," (1854) "Miss Fouvetle"